


Moon: an Ode to Vegetasei

by LadyVegeets



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Drabble Sequence, F/M, Lemon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-08-11 09:21:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7885441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyVegeets/pseuds/LadyVegeets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vegeta waxes poetics at the moon until a certain blue haired vixen pulls him out of it. A collection of 6 lemony drabbles for the Prince and Heiress community's August lemon drabble night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moon: an Ode to Vegetasei

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the August BVDN on the Prince and Heiress Bulma and Vegeta Google + Community. 6 prompts, 40 minutes each, 300 words per prompt.

[](http://s1079.photobucket.com/user/ladyvegeets/media/August%202016%20bvdn%20banner_zpsd893jxdn.png.html)

**Moon: an Ode to Vegetasei**

_by LadyVegeets_

 

**1: Moon**

(294)

 

He stared up at the night sky. Black, or seemingly so, the glittering stars shining a bright contrast in the inky sky overhead. And there, heavy as an overripe peach, swollen, hanging low and ready to be plucked, it sat.

The moon.

It basked the balcony in a soft, pearlescent glow, glinting off the leaves in the trees, off the railing and the domed metal house, casting the entire scenery in a surreal, dream-like hue. But nothing was as dream-like as her.

She drifted out onto the balcony like a phantom, a ghost, haunting the evening the same way she haunted his thoughts. Her blue hair appeared almost silver, and her white nightshirt glowed in the light of the moon. He scowled at her as she approached, hiding the thudding of his heart, his fingers curling in the crooks of his folded arms, not trusting himself to keep from reaching out and touching her, itching to see if she was real or only a figment of his imagination.

It wouldn’t be the first time he’d hallucinated. 

She smiled at him, her mouth a coy little bow of temptation. She leaned against the railing, the gentle breeze tugging at her nightshirt, the thin cotton caressing her feminine form, teasing him with glimpses of her hardened nipples and the curve of her waist and hip. He would have bet his space pod that she wore nothing underneath, if he was a betting man. Or still had a space pod.

Goddamn lewd woman.

He scowled harder, turning away from her body and glared back up at the moon. 

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” she asked.

He said nothing. The moon was no thing of beauty to a Saiyan. For him, a moon was something far more primal.

 

 

**2: Death**

(299)

 

Death. The moon meant the transformation, the transformation meant power, and power meant death, death of your enemies, death of rules and propriety, death of Self. It meant letting go, being free, reigning terror and blood and laughing in maniacal victory as your enemies weeped for mercy; mercy that he never gave. 

But all that had been taken from him. Now, the moon was just a hallow, heavy reminder of that. He’d lost his home, his people, and that which had made him wholly Saiyan. Wholly free. Without his tail, he could never change into that which had brought him unmitigated joy to be his primal, wild self.

His hands clenched on the railing in frustration.

“Sorry,” she said, and it almost startled him, he’d nearly forgotten she was there. He gave her a side long look, scornful and contemptuous of her sympathy. He needed none of it. 

“For what?” he snapped.

She unfurled her fingers elegantly towards the moon. “That’s probably a touchy subject for you, huh?”

“Tch,” he looked away, pretending like it wasn’t. He tensed when he felt her step closer. Too close. He could feel her body heat against his arm, smell the scent of strawberries from her lotion, and underneath it, something softer, more natural and feminine. Her.

“What was it like?” she asked, looking at him with her big, blue eyes, staring at him, wholly unafraid.

Why was she not afraid?

“What _what_ was like?”

“Being a giant sentient ape,” she clarified.

His jaw worked furiously, and the answer he wanted to give slipped from his mouth before he could think better of baring something so personal to her. “Everything,” he admitted.

She pressed her delicate hand to his bicep and leaned in, her blue eyes burning into his. “Tell me about it.”

 

 

**3: Destruction**

(294)

 

His breath caught in his throat. She was impossibly beautiful, so fragile and petite and soft, pressed right up against his side, her hand on his body in a way he’d allowed no one to touch him in years, or perhaps ever, and her eyes drew in his gaze, beckoning for him to drown in them, to envelop him in their blue, cerulean depths, wrapping him up in their promising cool waters.

He tore his gaze away before the temptation became too strong. He gripped the railing tighter, but he didn’t roll his arm out from beneath her touch like he knew he should have. Something about the night felt too surreal, and he indulged it, allowing himself this one moment of weakness. 

“It’s powerful,” he stated, matter of factly. “You’re invincible, wreaking destruction wherever you go. Everything bows in your wake. You are a god…” he trailed off, frowning, a little embarrassed about saying so much. Waxing poetics, as Nappa might have said.

Her fingers tightened on his arm and he glanced at her. The wind tugged at her blue locks playfully, her hair drifting across her face like wisps of smoke, and for a horrifying moment he thought she might melt away into the night, that she wasn’t really there. That he was imagining it again.

He reached out and caught her hair in his fingers. It was feather soft, springy, and his eyes widened when he realized she was real.

Her eyes mirrored his, surprised that he’d touched her.

He blushed. Having no excuse, he shoved her hair behind her ear. He started to retract his hand when she reached up and wrapped her fingers around his.

He couldn’t breathe. Her eyes, like two shining moons, caught his. 

And destroyed him.

 

 

**4: Red Hue**

(298)

 

She guided his hand to her side and his fingers tangled in the thin cloth, finding her slender waist amidst the billowing fabric. Touching her was electric. She burned, and he felt her quiver as his large fingers squeezed about her, her flesh tightening, her breath hitching. She was incredibly responsive, and something about that ignited a primal fire in him he thought long gone, lost with a malicious swing of a sword.

He glanced back at her eyes; they were hooded, darkened.

She stepped closer and placed a hand on his chest, feeling him through his battle suit, feeling the rise and fall of his breath and the beating of his heart. He couldn’t look away from her, transfixed.

“It’s okay. You can touch me,” she encouraged, and he blinked, breaking free of the spell he’d been under, realizing he hadn’t moved in minutes. He frowned, displeased that she affected him so easily. To compensate, he grabbed her other hip, hard, and shoved her against the railing, trying to scare her, to shake her up the same way he felt inside.

She let out a cry of alarm, clinging to his arms for security. He felt her tremble and saw her breathing pick up, her eyes shimmering in alarm. Yet she didn’t scream, didn’t run, didn’t demand he let her go. He could break her so easily. They both knew it. Why didn’t she run?

And why did he not want her to?

He stepped in, looming over her in strength if not in height. She melted into him, completely pliant, and she may as well have been wearing nothing for all the protection her nightgown gave. 

“Your offer,” he growled. “Are there any limitations?”

She shook her head slowly, her cheeks flushing with a red hue.

 

 

**5: prideful nation**

(293)

 

His fingers tightened on her possessively, pinching her just on the side of too rough, watching her eyes grow wider and her breath stutter and feeling her fingers tighten on him reflexively.

He grinned, and only part of it was malicious.

He leaned in as if to kiss her and he watched wickedly as she tilted her head up to receive him, but he denied her. He smelled her instead, trailing his nose down her cheek and throat and lower still, down between her breasts. He slowly slid along the length of her body, pressing his face into her belly, his hands remaining on her waist, trapping her against the railing.

When he reached the apex of her thighs, he felt her tremble, and this time he knew it wasn’t from fear. He inhaled deeply, smelling her femininity, hearing her whimper. She placed her hands brazenly in his hair. He growled low in his chest, but she ignored the warning, threading her fingers through his thick spikes and he decided to allow it, his eyes on a bigger prize.

Her nightgown was indecently short. He only had to nudge it out of the way to find her beneath, completely exposed for him, and he’d been right. She wasn’t wearing anything.

Vulgar. Lewd. Obscene.

And wet. He could smell her, and see her, glistening in the moonlight. Overwhelmed with need, he gripped her hips hard and leaned in, tasting her, slowly dragging his tongue between her lips. She whimpered above him, her knees buckling, and he nudged her legs wider to better accommodate him.

As her fingers tightened in his hair, he gave in to his primal instincts, his blood roaring, the legacy of a prideful nation spurning him on, conquest his only goal.

 

 

 

**6: The fate of Phaeton**

(295)

 

Making her fall apart was easy. Wanting to stop was impossible. It took only seconds to become entranced by the mewling sounds she made, by the gentle tugging on his hair, by the desperate roll of her hips. She tasted clean and sweet, and it was easy to forget all the char and dirt and blood from his life as he buried himself between her trembling thighs.

He laved at her core, teasing her with his tongue, his eyes dragging up to watch her shiver and gasp, keening above him, wretchedly undone by his wicked mouth.

He stood and picked her up abruptly, placing her pert butt on the railing and watching her dazed eyes try to catch up. He stepped between her thighs and she spread them willingly, as she should, wrapping them about his hips. He pulled himself free and without preamble pushed into her wet sex, placing his hand at the small of her back to ease her against him.

She sighed with aching contentment, trembling as he filled her. She brought her arms up about his neck, suddenly intimately close, and he wished he’d chosen a different position but it was too late now, and she was _riding him_ , grinding against his swollen cock and he stopped thinking and just let go… Free.

He fucked her mercilessly, watching her with transfixed eyes, her cheeks flushed, her breasts bouncing where he tore open the offending thin fabric to reveal her beneath the moonlight.

She was the sun, burning, consuming, and he realized he’d lost control, had from the beginning. He clutched her desperately, her hot sex sucking about him, and he cried out in anguish, spilling himself inside her.

 

The moon was no thing of beauty to a Saiyan. But she was.

 


End file.
